


.writ

by misskatieleigh



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Mild Kink, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-12
Updated: 2008-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misskatieleigh/pseuds/misskatieleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can feel the ink, swirled down onto his skin like a flare of phantom touch</p>
            </blockquote>





	.writ

**Author's Note:**

> this was written ages ago, just moving my stuff here from LJ

He can feel the ink, swirled down onto his skin like a flare of phantom touch. The fabric of his shirt catches the irritated flesh, around his shoulder and under his arm, sense memory of the needle dashing rapid in and out with every brush of cotton against black. It’s silly really, wasting the effort on something so vain, on something that will hide under the edges of his uniform away from the eyes that might see. It’s silly but he can’t help the ache of wanting this, the desire for this perfect curve marked down onto his body – slicing through errant scars and the imperfection of his own skin, this is something he can sketch out with his mind, map the mathematics of the line’s tip and tilt in equations on crisp white paper, transferred onto his body with a steady hand and sealed with permanence just under the surface. He can write a secret round his arm in a language that only his mind would cipher, his and those who will not see. To anyone else it is just a decoration, a silly whim. To John, this is as close to telling as he can get.  
  
Rodney traces the line, blunt fingertip just brushing the tinge of red around the edge of the curve, sliding under his arm with a sure touch – like he knows where the line ends without needing to see the last dip and sprawl. He leans forward, forehead pressed to John’s collarbone and hot breath dampening John’s skin like a precursor to the wet of his mouth. John doesn’t speak, lets the ink peal out the words in the sharpest tone he can muster, a hidden declaration stretching toward his heart with creeping tendrils. Rodney presses his fingers in at the end of the line, inches from the column of John’s spine, slides up to curve his palm around John’s neck – writing his own declaration in with the tips of calloused fingers and the soft drag of unkempt nails.  
  
Promises writ in ink.


End file.
